


Retrograde

by belladeum



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: (I completely forgot that tag sorry), (not super drunk but just in case that isn't your cup of tea), Angst, Angst and Porn, Denial of Feelings, Drunk Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sexual Tension, and I started this before the I saw the comic. I’m not changing it., btw Nevil is black in this, but for the same third party (thrawn) and not for each other lol, cause like? When I read the book that’s how I headcanoned him…, it's literally one sentence alluding to the scars but yeah pls take note, not really hatesex?, this is the first fic I've written and finished in like over a year, y'all this is a good ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belladeum/pseuds/belladeum
Summary: Nightswan put the glass down on the shelf and rested his hands flat and casual against his parted legs. Eli’s eyes flicked to that movement, the way the man relaxed his form, leant back, anticipated, goaded. It was an invitation. It was easy, it was obvious, and it was pathetic.It was everything Eli shouldn’t have wanted.Nightswan is held under house-arrest on Csilla, much to Eli’s frustration. The two of them are resolutely not going to talk about Thrawn, each other, or their feelings for either. So they do the next best thing.





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> So a note that some alcohol _is_ involved in this fic, and while neither party is drunk and both are consenting I know that some people may not be comfortable with that.  
> This is basically smut with an absolute denial of discussing Feelings.

The thing was that Eli Vanto had not expected another roommate so soon. Ever again, really. It was not his place, not a circumstance that befit him as he stood now. Such a bizarre detail, of course, to extract out of this cacophony of events that had unfolded, but being a warden for house arrest was probably the last thing he’d thought would happen. It was not what he’d thought he’d been doing with his time, with this honour he was given. And yet things never turned out how he expected. Should he really have expected them to by now? So here he was, unwilling aide to a willing captive. Yet again.

The captive, this time, was already well known to him, if only by name. If only by alias.

He paced back and forth the length of the room, a secluded all-purpose square which was neither designed for guest nor for prisoner. This was not a home – Eli had a home here, on Csilla, and it was different and strange and very, well, _Chiss_ , but it was lovely. He’d felt warmth through the practicality, invitation in the harsh, dark, unending winter. This small box was not those things. It was enclosed and hidden away and never too far from a watchful eye – distrustful eyes. But there was privacy and room for comfort and leisure, and, of course, room for two.

This was simply _odd_.

As ever, his ward seemed quietly amused at the pacing and watched him from the small alcove near the corner. It was intended to hold two perfectly cut pieces of furniture: a shelving unit which was more like a display case and a rather tall set of drawers, positioned neatly to accompany the recesses carved into the wall, but the unwelcome guest had already moved the latter to another space in the room, distorting the symmetry and practicality of it all. He’d also dragged the case more towards, but not exactly to, the centre of the alcove. It now eclipsed the edge of the shelves in the wall, pulling it into obsoleteness. In his words, he simply “liked it better like that”. Eli doubted the Chiss would agree, even though they allowed him respite and to do as he wished within this room – these were his own quarters after all. Eli wondered what Thrawn would make of it, of the white space. Or of any of this mess really. There wasn’t a passage in his journal for something like this.

Eli paused, and then reinvigorated his stride.

“Will this always be your routine,” the man he knew as Nightswan asked. His eyes glinted in the gloom. “Pacing?”

“Maybe,” he replied.

“Until a decision is made?”

“Until then.” Hah, and who knew how long _that_ would take. The Council seemed in no rush; they made decisions in their own time and this one appeared to have enough merit to warrant a full exploration of the options. Everyone wanted a say. What were the benefits of humouring this trespasser, what was the best utilisation of this intruder, if any? At what point would the cost of debate outstrip that of permitting his stay? It had only been several weeks already. Several bizarre and inexplicable weeks.

_“He’s a trustworthy individual… but I don’t know if we can trust him.”_ Those had been Eli’s words given for consideration. The words that had led to such a strained dance between the two.

 

* * *

 

When Nevil had arrived at the co-ordinates uncovered after not much effort at all, he had, of course, expected Eli Vanto to be planetside already. This had led to the curious musing that, perhaps, one of them had been a concession, a back-up, and he didn’t mind if it was him. That was to be expected also.

Nevil’s conclusion was that the now Grand Admiral simply wasn’t as good at hiding things as he thought. The problem with this deduction is that it was framed on the basis that he had indeed _intended_ to hide those things that Nevil knew. Perhaps even the ease of his discovery of the frozen planet was not purely of his own merit. But then, why leave breadcrumbs for a dead man? And there lay the impasse. Vanto would, of course, know. At least, that was what he presumed. _Had_ presumed.

After the first week of their cohabitation, or what he compartmentalised as a week, he no longer believed this to be the case.

The invitation to Vanto in turn had been planned. He didn’t simply want to show up to disrupt what had been a turbulent period of adjustment for him. Nevil need not adjust. That required ever having felt settled. So he had simply… let Eli Vanto find him. Left a message, left conclusions to be drawn, and left Vanto to his own devices. He hadn’t disappointed.

Perhaps mimicry was the highest form of flattery he could offer, the only left to give.

It was hard to define what time meant – what was an hour, what was a day? All was abandoned in the ice – but he’d established the transient length of time that the alien star crowned the horizon and used that as a basis. In all, it had taken Vanto very little time at all to find him once he’d left his calling card. Three spans of daylight. Good thing too; he’d underestimated the extent of the sheer cold on Csilla. That came with being preoccupied with disguising his presence from the native inhabitants, hard to do when trying to land discreetly, being uninvited and on an unknown vessel. Well, not _entirely_ uninvited. Unexpected.

Unwelcome?

Cold is not the same everywhere. Space was cold. Icy waters were cold. A spurn of affection was cold. Csilla had harsh beauty and devastatingly unpredictable blizzards. Those were freezing, beyond _cold_ , and beyond his survival skills. It seemed fitting; where crumbled stone had not killed him and relentless fire – a broken promise – had failed also, he was left to the merciless everwinter of a promise kept. 

How glad he’d been when bright lamplight had shone into the makeshift hide carved out of snow. He’d abandoned the warmth of his landing vessel – a decoy. He was, presumably, a complete unknown, and wasn’t about to risk getting shot on sight by the Chiss after all that struggle. And if he was to die, it seemed fitting that there should be no body to find.

“What the fuck,” Vanto had said. He was beautifully and practically adorned in thick furs and synthetic fibres that probably left him little below cool. Snow creased and clung to his form. His face glowed in the fluorescence.

“It’s been a while. So glad you could join me.”

Nevil had made it abundantly clear that Vanto was expected to ensure his survival back to those glittering cities he’d seen in the distance before the frenzy had descended. He couldn’t very well walk with legs that no longer felt attached to his body, or when his body was starting to feel uncharacteristically warm. Burning to death even in the ice. Vanto had managed that in disgruntled silence, delivering them as a limping tangle back to society carved underground. Buried alive after all, then.

Recovery had once again been painful, and awkward, and quiet, but it was a familiar routine.

And then had come the questions. A barrage that Vanto did not say so much as thought very pointedly, and expressed through his various grimaces and wringing of the hands and overall behaviour. Oh, Nevil had answered them, in ways that were no doubt frustrating and no more than what Vanto needed or even deserved to hear. What business was it of his why and how he was here on Csilla, alive?

Ah, but perhaps it had been unfair to dodge that one. He’d been granted the runner-up ticket after all.

 

* * *

 

Nightswan had been, for the most part, congenial since his unexpected arrival. Whilst the Chiss seconded Eli’s instincts and did not trust the man, they bestowed an odd respect for the manner in which he quickly imitated their mannerisms; particularly, elegantly half-answering their questions. He toed that fine mirrored edge of withholding that which was unnecessary and that which he did not wish to say without falter. Other than his secrecy he was co-operative through and through, and seamlessly integrated into his surroundings. This did just short of infuriating Eli.

Nightswan was quick to understand both his standing and how to manipulate it.

When he had been deemed fit enough to leave the strict confines and routine of medical oversight and granted quarters out of the ordinary for his case Nightswan had been most courteous – and then inexplicably dragged Eli into the arrangement. It was, of course, the most logical course of action. A guard with experience with the captive, and one who could not be gleaned for any further secrets or knowledge of the Chiss made perfect sense. The Chiss trusted Eli, of course, but one could never be _too_ careful. One should never underestimate a newcomer – enemy or ally. A warrior kept both close. And so Eli had accepted the role, because, logically, it was the best course of action.

If only it hadn’t been made so at the behest of Nightswan himself.

He always seemed to be one step ahead of Eli, an infuriating reflection of a missing body, however never once had Eli felt wholly unable to refuse or avoid those neatly placed snares. He was not so naïve any more. This was contrary to Eli’s previous experience and expectations of such manipulations, and this both unnerved and perversely satisfied him.

It was certainly an elegant tango.

 

* * *

 

Eli Vanto had most definitely not known, nor did he know, the extent of his Admiral’s layered façade. Not that the Chiss had been disingenuous, he was rather candid, but it appeared that Vanto did not fully understand all there was to. Nevil could not claim any differently on that front. It had simply bemused him for this to be the case.

Vanto also did not seem to realise just how quickly he’d fallen into step with Nevil over the past few weeks.

The fury and confusion had passed, paving way for grumbling acceptance, and finally a sense of quiet fascination, none of which had gone unnoticed. All of which had been toyed with and teased through his fingers as delicately as Nevil brushed over his skin during idle conversation, or after a round of sparring. One too many a time.

Vanto had made a habit of offering his hand when Nevil sat down to regain his breath after such exercise. It was a little beyond him at this point. Flame had stripped away what capacity for endurance had remained in him for all these years. At first, whilst undressing to exchange for something loose and long-sleeved, Vanto had flinched upon seeing the mesh of scarring that adorned one side of his body. The prosthetic was old news from day one.

“Creekpath,” he’d said, completely without needing to, and winced.

It didn’t bother him now.

Nevil had learnt to accept that hand and be pulled up swiftly by the shorter man, knowing full well to read just enough into it, and to reciprocate. A coy smile, a tilt of the head, the odd comment which Vanto all but shivered at despite making not a sound in response. What an ungainly dance they shared. What a thrill it brought him to make such foolish decisions, one after another.

Vanto did not have to be dragged down into this. That much was perfectly clear. Resisting was not futility – there was no need to resist. There was no need to even _engage_. He didn’t even have to sit at the board. And yet here he was. Pacing. Spending time with Nevil when he could be doing anything else.

Nevil hummed to himself. Averting his gaze from the repetitive display he came to stare into the ruminating reflection clasped within his hands, a brooding ochre colour. He wasn’t partial to such drinking, but he had to admit that it had a very particular nostalgic taste that he’d taken to rather swiftly. He wondered whether he should have poured himself more of the divine ichor he’d been respected enough to be allowed access to. A terrible decision, really. It slipped down his throat wonderfully.

It may not have just been the flavour that was so appealing.

He caught Eli’s eye, the tiniest flicker, and busied himself pretending he’d noticed nothing amiss, knowing full well Eli knew that it was pretend. He wondered what he would make of that: of being caught, of the denial for his courtesy, at the game they were continuously playing. Nevil thought back on it all, of their time together. Of conversations and piercing gazes. The way each dance brought them closer into orbit, into scalding collision course. This brief moment, eclipsed and done with, was just one of many. How many times had he pushed against that wall, not wanting to climb it, but wanting to drag Eli down to meet him? And yet how many times had Eli stared after him, complicit, before looking away, furious at the both of them?

It could only end miserably. Still, it was an end he’d be satisfied with drowning in.

 

* * *

 

Eli glanced at him, again, quietly nursing that odd drink that Eli couldn’t pronounce the name of still but that Nightswan had described as familiar. This was another annoyance, because why should this man know seemingly more of the Unknown Regions than Eli, and whose own parents had experience with distillation? Than he, who had been raised with myths of the Chiss? It shouldn’t be true. He couldn’t read that face, but it must have been a lie, a jest, one of his games. Why should Nightswan care so much about provoking him? He frowned. The man managed to rile him without having to do a single thing.

He was caught looking – _again_ – and was now met with a tilt of the head, a questioning retort. The air drew close. After a moment, Nightswan put the glass down on the shelf and rested his hands flat and casual against his parted legs. Eli’s eyes flicked to that movement, the way the man relaxed his form, leant back, anticipated, goaded. It was an invitation. It was easy, it was obvious, and it was pathetic.

It was everything Eli shouldn’t have wanted.

Eli strode over and eyed the man silently. His ebony skin was inviting in the artificial half-light streaming through the window opposite, the frost hanging around casting curious sparkles onto his skin. Freckles of starlight to mirror his own.

Nightswan reached out a hand and caressed his cheek and pulled on his lower lip. His fingers were soft. Eli wasn’t sure this why this was a surprise to him.

And then Eli was pulling back, grasping the man’s face and pulling him forward with a lurch, crashing their lips together. It was all haphazard and unthinking and teeth clacking, lips parting and fighting. Eli moaned into it, filled with desire as he found his fingers tangling in those long dark tresses, thick heavy braids that fell past his shoulders. Couldn’t stop himself falling into this broiling mess of a decision he hadn’t made. Couldn’t stop his thoughts racing, his lack of thought, couldn’t stop his hands and his tongue, certainly couldn’t stop Nightswan’s.

“You’re thinking of _him_ ,” that lilting, strangely accented voice came out gasping. “We both are, aren’t we?”

Eli retracted and looked Nightswan in the eye. He couldn’t answer that; he didn’t need to. Nightswan met his gaze with curiosity and sadness. He laughed. “How stupid.”

That wasn’t enough, that still that didn’t stop him, didn’t stop _them_ from finding each other’s lips again, kisses still desperate but slowed to a more reasonable pace allowing for breath and desire and regrets. Sour and addictive and maddeningly good.

Eli groaned and pulled away with a gasp as hands flitted to the skin of his waist, stroking and grasping and teasing his belt.

“Wait— stop. I can’t do this.”

Nightswan straightened up, withdrew to his full height. His dark eyes seemed dazed. Frosted over.

“Right,” he said. “No, of course. You’re right, how foolish of me.”

“You don’t— this was my fault too. You don’t have to apologise.”

Nightswan chuckled.

“I believe _I_ am seducing _you_ here.”

“Think again,” Eli muttered, but his hitching breath was far from convincing otherwise. The feel of Nightswan’s breath at his ear as leant down into him was overwhelming, it was good, it was everything. He sighed. This resistance was born only out of regret, of trying to find semblance of pride, of desperation worn thin. He didn’t – _did_ – want this.

“I have done, Vanto, and I believe you are a poor and needy liar.”

“Prove it,” he spat. He looked up to him with fervour. Do it, don’t do it, either way Eli would get what he wanted. Nightswan smiled and took up the challenge, palming Eli through his trousers.

He could tell himself that this would not go further, but then that would be a lie, and that would make the man in front of him right, so Eli would much rather vehemently deny it all and come out on top. He’d force him to take it back. A tough act to follow for one bucking wantonly against the hand rubbing over his hardening cock.

Oh, there were simply far too many layers of clothing between him and those dark and dextrous hands.

He could say no, but he wasn’t going to. Nightswan could stop, but he wasn’t going to, and he probably knew that was exactly what Eli wanted. And damn him for knowing that.

“This is—” A mistake. A beautiful, terrible, fucked up mistake. He waited for a response with a tight chest, but there was only the heat of his touch, the flick of a button coming undone, and the rush to find his lips in a kiss he absolutely did not instigate.

Nightswan’s tongue was warm and wet against his own and the taste stung.

“What do you want me to do now?” His hands were against Eli’s skin now, wrapped around him and flooding him with sensations. The right had shrugged aside undergarments and was moving swiftly, but gently, and the left was cold at the small of his back curling into Eli’s shirt, pulling it taut across his chest. As prosthetics went it was cheap, and the pads of the fingers were unnervingly flat and blunt. The cold helped, the cold touch…

“Tell me, tell me, how do you want to do this?”

Eli growled at his lips and stared back into his dark eyes, and for all the world they looked genuine and humble. To hells with that.

He dragged nails down Nightswan’s neck, over jutting vertebrae and listened for the catch on his skin, the small hiss of desire. Nightswan mouthed something, something Eli scrambled to catch, to use, to degrade and reconstruct to his favour, and it looked like a question.

_“Really?”_

He pulled the hand back, around, pushed it flat against Nightswan’s chest, could feel the heat of him, the thundering heart he wished he could plunge into and squeeze tight. Felt a move in response, a thumb over the head of his cock, slow and ginger.

“I don’t want a pity fuck.”

“Pity for whom?” Nightswan replied and stroked again. Eli bit back a whine. No, this wouldn’t do.

“I want you to do as I tell you,” he said, and he grabbed at Nightswan’s wrist, felt tendons and sharp bone and squeezed.

“On your knees,” Eli commanded and Nightswan obeyed, dropping to the floor with a barely concealed smirk. That was no better. Eli was drawn to the pale of his palm, the contrast between the ebony of his knuckles, and the way his fingers curled and squeezed around him. He wasted no time grabbing a fistful of hair and urging Nightswan closer. That mouth had better things to do than talk back. And around his cock it was hot and compliant, and Eli gasped.

 

* * *

 

It may certainly have been a while since he’d done this, but given the highly arousing sounds from above him, Nevil was sure he was doing well. He hadn’t expected to wind up the bedfellow of one Eli Vanto when he’d first arrived but there was a beautiful and queer symmetry in it all. It was better like this. Better to have Eli, better to succumb to wanton need kneeling between these legs, better not to think. That may have been the alcohol talking; his thoughts warped but lucid. That was had been his intention, after all, to blur that sensible line in his mind.

“Fuck,” Eli breathed.

Nevil did not have to glance upwards to know that Eli’s eyes were closed, that he was not looking at or thinking of him. He could not bring himself to break that illusion, and so busied himself with proving it was real. He couldn’t take Eli much deeper, and in his creeping haze it was probably a bad idea to prompt a gag, but his hands seemed satisfactory enough for Eli, who made a noise that went white-hot straight to the base of Nevil’s spine and tightened his grip on his hair. He pulled at his braids. Hard. He did not relent, urged Nevil closer, and he did not resist the order. Nevil was not fond of pain, but he supposed that was what he deserved for orchestrating this. He couldn’t very well say no, either. The plan was his but he was not in charge of its execution anymore. That too was part of it.

“Is this any good?” Eli asked from above him.

Nevil looked up, pulling his head back. His scalp burned and the touch lingered. Eli had lifted the yet unfinished glass of alcohol from the shelving carved into the walls and was tilting it in his hand. He was not looking at him.

He hummed around Eli’s cock, an invitation to try it, and took satisfaction in the hitch of his breath. Eli did so and blinked hard. Perhaps he should have warned him of its fiery strength. Ah well.

“I don’t like the idea of you being drunk.”

“I’m not.” Nevil’s jaw ached and the words felt clumsy. His mouth was full of the taste of Eli’s pre-come. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“In that case let’s get those clothes off.”

Nevil didn’t smile this time. He wouldn’t do that, not now. A plan well executed did not deserve praise or satisfaction. Those thoughts weren’t even his own. He stood up, and Eli kissed him, and Nevil kissed back with fervour. Real, right? He started to pull at the bottom of his borrowed shirt and Eli growled.

“ _I’ll_ do that.”

Possessive. Surprisingly so. But perhaps, Nevil thought, that wasn’t a surprise given everything. Perhaps Eli was already feeling the dizzying grasp of it on his system – both the control and the drink. Perhaps this was the only way for Eli to convince himself he was doing the right thing. Nevil could almost admire him for that, if it weren’t so plaintively obvious this engagement was _not_ the result of sensible thoughts.

The feel of Eli’s hands on his chest, lifting his shirt over his head and then running back down his throat, over a nipple, and squeezing at his waist while Nevil shrugged off the clothing from his arms, was delightful and soft. The warmth of his palm rubbing his growing erection through the casual slacks he wore was intoxicating. He’d beg, but he wasn’t one for that, either. And besides, Eli could almost certainly tell he was desperate.

Perhaps Nevil should have been more honest about the extent of his sobriety.

 

* * *

 

Eli’s mind buzzed as he shrugged Nightswan’s trousers down over his hips, and this was peculiar because whilst he was in control he didn’t entirely feel it. Or rather, he didn’t entirely _know_ it. He was being encouraged far too much by those pliant lips and breathy moans.

“You should be fighting back,” he said. Nightswan blinked and smiled, his swollen lips tilting ever so slightly.

“If you say so.”

Eli took a step forward, and Nightswan a step back, a give-take tango.

This was _submission_.

But he wanted that, didn’t he? Anything to be different, to see _Nightswan_ when his eyes were opened, and no-one else. Any sort of reminder that could prompt futile protest, some way to convince him that maybe they could stop, maybe they could end it here, when they clearly wouldn’t, clearly didn’t want to. Anything to remind him of who the man before him was. It was bad enough they were near the same height. It was bad enough Nightswan knew what he was thinking just with a look. It was bad enough with the way he spoke, the way he could imitate, the way he would always be the other side of the coin. And it was bad enough the way he made full use of that cold, fake hand of his. They kissed, and he closed his eyes once more.

Eli had found that Chiss alcohol wasn’t to his taste, and while it was certainly strong he had only taken a sip, but he could certainly tell Nightswan was feeling the effects – at least now if he wasn’t before. He was sloppy and eager and his kisses were now becoming bites at his throat. Eli wouldn’t have that. He grabbed hair and yanked him away, pushing him back against the wall and biting him back. Nightswan finally submitted with a shudder. Eli’s hands returned to cupping Nightswan’s groin, feeling the sticky wet heat through the restricting fabric, and Nightswan’s to stroking Eli’s own cock. Eli’s responding moan was muffled but clear: “Bed.”

He led the way, of course, pushing and grasping as he unclothed and aware this was blind leading the blind. Didn’t matter. When Nightswan buckled, the back of his legs meeting the edge of the bed, Eli pushed him down with ease and guided him to its centre.

He stared down at the mess of a man and was surprised at how easy this had all been. He should hate himself, really, for not having struggled with it more. A hand at his cheek, tugging at a wisp of hair, mechanical clicks and whirrs that didn’t do enough to remind him to stop or to make him feel guilt.

If he closed his eyes he could pretend – and he didn’t have to confront this. If he closed his eyes, he admitted this was a mistake again. Eli frowned, then glared, and made to strip the remaining clothes off of the man breathing so heavily below him.

They fell away easily, shrugged down shoulders, down hips and trembling thighs and were strewn aside without care. Nightswan lay reclined, chest heaving and eyes half-lidded as Eli poured his gaze across him, so damn fucking enticing.

His.

He didn’t say anything about the inked design that followed the crook of his legs, a secret for lovers only to see, now irrevocably besmirched and warped by flame, he didn’t say anything about the way he moaned desperately against him as he lay flush atop him, he wouldn’t say anything, nothing at all, about those neat scars he could feel on Nightswan’s wrists as his pinned him down, and nothing of the pained cry as he bit down again on those perfect swollen lips.

Perhaps that would scar also. Nightswan had proof he was in control of his life; Eli would have proof that he was in control of Nightswan.

 

* * *

 

“You’re hesitating,” Nevil said.

The hand between his legs was shaking, and not out of need, not like Nevil, who was desperately trying to reel it in. Pride didn’t matter, but this? He couldn’t let go, not yet. Eli stilled and shot a look his way. His brow arched, his rich hair flat against his forehead, longer than when they’d first met, when Eli had been caught between things he didn’t understand. He understood so much, and so little. Perhaps it was better for him not to know. Nevil almost wished that ignorance of his own could grant him bliss. But he had Eli’s touch for that, had the parting of his lips in retort.

“Don’t,” he added, cutting the man off. “I’m quite ready. I’ve had plenty of time to think and prepare for this outcome.”

Those words set Eli bristling, set his eyes ablaze and his hand moving, his fingers hard and daring and – _yes_. He was on edge. Eli, he was fighting, he was thoroughly displeased with the reassurance. He’d much prefer if this was some sordid heat of the moment affair.

What an adequate choice of words.

Oh, how Eli would love to believe this wasn’t planned on either of their parts. That their interactions hadn’t always been pretence for desires long held in check. How he longed for the delusion of addled spontaneity.

_“I don’t like the idea of you being drunk.”_

Liar.

And yet here he was, party to an unfaithful act; one meticulously plotted and tragically executed to perfection. Here they both were, lying through their teeth – and even Eli hadn’t held those back.

He held his left hand steady on Eli’s waist, wishing he could feel the sweat and the warmth but closing his eyes to imagine the rush of conflictions it would elicit. Stars, this was everything he shouldn’t have wanted. How much more should he have drunk to be able to fool himself?

 

* * *

 

Eli wasn’t even sure how it happened he just knew that he was staring at his own ministrations, of fingers bending inwards and thrusting into tight heat, and the resulting shudders. Couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“Do you have anything?” his voice was clipped, tight.

“Oh, well I couldn’t exactly _ask_ my hosts,” Nightswan replied. True – he did not speak Cheunh or Sy Bisti, and the Chiss did not speak Basic. Or they chose not to. Yet again, Eli was playing translator. Did Nightswan know what that meant, too?

“Right.”

Of course.

Eli pushed himself back up, away from metal fingers that trailed down his hip, clinging to the touch, leaving their cold ghost on his skin like a blade. He missed the heat of him, of his chest, of Nightswan’s breath and voice crooning at his ear, begging, begging without words. Eli glanced over his shoulder for his trousers, shucked on the floor. Ah, that wasn’t right anyway.

Eli scowled and shuffled himself back off the bed, ignoring the restrained sigh that followed his wake, and moving swiftly to the pouch clipped onto his belt. It was nearer the window, pulled off in the scuffle, dropped with a clink that Eli recalled had sent him careening further into this… engagement. The metal hitting the floor had been a kick, an inhibition released, and right now as he bent over to pull at it, he couldn’t decide whether he hated that. The metal was cold in his palm. He flipped open the small pouch, a valuable utility kit, meticulously designed to accommodate the essentials and the basics. Eli had forgone some of those – though perhaps he shouldn’t be thinking of _this_ as a non-essential under such circumstances. It was a small tube, pocket-sized, cap still sealed and unbroken. The crack of it was another kick to his diaphragm, breath going short, heat pooling and thoughts whirring. Tried not to think about it.

Satisfied this would suffice, knowing that it would, of course, why _else_ would he have… Eli walked back to the bed where Nightswan lay, half propped up, patiently impatient, eyes trained on him. His lips twitched ever so slightly with the flicker of his brow, but he said nothing. Wisely, he didn’t say a damn word.

The gel warmed quickly between his fingers and he pushed back into Nightswan, waiting and wanting and moaning encouragement. It was a good sound; Eli didn’t want words. Didn’t want anything but the submersion in desire. The anticipation throbbed throughout his body, and he stroked himself to sate it, the slick sound only fuelling the want.

“Should I wear a condom?” he asked, an afterthought.

“No,” came the reply. “Besides, I’ve already had your cock in my mouth.”

Eli huffed in annoyance. Stupid of him to even ask. Still, hopefully it would be better like this.

 

* * *

 

He wished Eli had kept those fingers cold inside of him.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck,” the man groaned as Eli entered. It was tight, too tight. The way Nightswan looked at him, looked _through_ him, then away again in a split-second of something like shame sent a jolt through Eli. Words came in a babble, thoughts he’d shut away.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? Should we stop?”

“ _It’s_ — _fine_ —” the man gasped. Eli stared at his trembling lips, blood flowing from where Eli had pierced them. Nightswan sighed and shifted, inhaling deeply through his nose. Eli wondered if he could smell the tang from his handiwork, his claim. He could still taste it. In the end, blood wasn’t a symbol or erotic or repulsive, it was simply a means with which to stay alive, a means to an end. That’s all this was. A means to an end.

Nightswan gasped and Eli would have called that sound beautiful. The world wasn’t as clear as it was earlier. He shifted and pulled a leg up against his chest, pulling himself in closer. The man whined, and Eli felt him push down to meet him, felt the rising circular motion of his hips, and felt a surge of satisfaction and confidence. He exhaled.

“Good?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s simply been a rather long time since I’ve done this. It was a little easier to find a woman amiable to a night – a moment – of sex in my line of work – though I can’t say much for that either.”

Eli withdrew, squeezing at the leg hooked over his shoulder and pulling himself back in, a slow thrust. Nightswan moaned, softer now, tension unwinding, pleasure rising. Mouthed the words _yes, yes_ without a hint of shame. Eli tried again and muttered to himself nothing in particular as he was fully inside.

“I imagine it’s similar for you?”

“The military doesn’t allow for relations on duty, s’not like it would matter even if I found a guy to sleep with.” Yeah, people had simply been falling over their feet to get a shot at this Wild Space hick.

“How unfortunate.” Nightswan made an emphasis of his point, stretching out languidly and glancing fingers over Eli’s wrist. Nightswan needn’t explain that all he was to Eli was a willing body, and he didn’t need that being explained to him. “A clever man like you doesn’t deserve to be alone.” He licked his lower lip, the red beautiful on the dart of his pink tongue. Breath was heavy, ragged.

Eli gasped, unabashed at how arousing a sight that was suddenly. He gripped tightly to Nightswan’s thigh, wanted to bite it, but made do with a snap of his hips. Nightswan nodded once, eyes wide and eager, and Eli began to move proper, finding a good rhythm and listening to the soft keens beneath him. It was good. The way Nightswan pushed the hair from his face, the way it fanned out on the pillow, the heat, the sounds, the giddiness reaching its peak and leaving him half-laughing, half breathless. He stared down at that shaking body, so hot, so tight around him, at the skin shining with sweat, and bent over low to grind in deep. _Gods yes_. He thrust again, over and over, letting his throat resonate with his own voice, names unspoken. This was what lust was. This is all this was.

“Fuck,” Nightswan whispered. His lashes fluttered against his skin, his brows creased and a hand sitting on his ribcage. His left hand curled tightly in the sheets, the exposed tubing making for an interesting visual distraction. Eli glanced to it, then to Nightswan, to those hungry pitch eyes.

With a numb jolt Eli realised he wasn’t the only one deluding himself in this moment. That he was being looked right through, a stand-in. That didn’t even make sense. What was _he_ compared to— And yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel jealousy. Jealousy would imply that his feelings were reciprocated.

“If _you_ like him, why bother with this?” His voice fell flat and bitter, not what he wanted. He wondered if Nightswan would even hear. He wondered why he’d asked. His throat was dry.

“I’m foolish when intoxicated. I’d never get a chance. Not with you involved.” Breathy retorts between thrusts, between sighs of pleasure, but coherency was forced. Nightswan was trembling. “I’m enamoured with you.”

“And what does that mean?” What did any of that mean? To forgo sobriety and submit as if he actually desired _Eli_. To let himself be fucked by someone like him, by a former opponent, by hopeless competition where there were no winners. Eli wanted to rip him to shreds, to make him fall apart, until there wasn’t even a false name to hide behind.

_I’m not drunk._ Perhaps he simply was not drunk enough.

Nightswan blinked. It was the same. A doppelganger.

“Eli, you’re the one he’d choose. He’s already chosen. Didn’t you see the way he always looked at you?”

Eli growled at that and dug nails into Nightswan’s leg. “Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

Pain flared, and by now it was bittersweet. He couldn’t dissociate from the hot clouded pleasure and the haze distorting his thoughts, so even that sharp punctures and the split of his lips were desirable. He wished he could feel the burn of nails raked across him, wished he could satisfy that desire himself, one finger bisecting his chest and navel.

“Shut. Up.” Punctuated with a snap of the hips.

Oh, such vice. He shouldn’t provoke, he should submit, like Eli wanted, like Eli said he didn’t want.

Nevil groaned and bucked his hips back to meet Eli’s thrusts. This was the man chosen over him. This was the man Nevil Cygni had chosen. Nevil was foolish to think he could have even one of them, but he could have this; he could have the man the other wanted, and though it was sour this was _his_ and he didn’t care because he was drunk, and drink eliminated feelings. It eliminated love for both of them. Gods, he was not nearly far-gone enough. His thoughts were too clear, still.

“He adored you,” Nevil retorted and cried out as pain and pleasure melded again. Bruises in his skin. Eli didn’t bother repeating himself.

“Why me, then? If you care for your darling so much.”

“Like I’d get this. Interspecies relationships are a forbidden minefield in the Empire. I was his aide, we had no place, and we’re not— he’s not— there isn’t even a—

“We’re a galaxy apart, now. And you’re as close as I’ll get. You’re not dissimilar.”

“A shitty replacement if you ask me.”

“You’ll do.” Of course he didn’t bother to refute.

Nevil laughed breathlessly. A hand was at his face, wiping blood and tears, another at his neglected cock, stroking fast. He wasn’t sure whose hand he was imagining any more.

“Well would you just look at us! You should have shared that drink with me, Eli. With luck you could have forgotten this in the morning,” he purred, and relished when Eli sank down to kiss him. Slow and tender and there were tears on his lashes, on his lips, too. It was sweeter than anything to have him flush against his chest, to have his legs spread wide and to have Eli sighing into him, pained.

“Stars, I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Eli gasped and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Nevil didn’t have time to think about accepting those apologies – or maybe he’d have rejected them – before he too was coming and pulling Eli closer, tan skin and overwhelming heat filling his senses.

In that brief moment of post-euphoric clarity, Nevil was painfully all too aware that Eli had not been apologising to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Get some therapy, guys.
> 
> Stay tuned for like. Something more mutual between these two. Cause I actually do love this ship.  
> Or a possibly a sequel to this. Because I hate myself.


End file.
